Significance
by C. Richard Crawg
Summary: A short tale told from the point of view of a common squad character facing the wrath of Krug.


**A short story from an old guy (me) who pretty much never comes here anymore. ...Actually this is a cooperatively written little tale. My 10 year old brother (penname Excalibur10) wrote the rough draft and I polished it up.**

 **- C. Richard Crawg**

Significance

Death. All I can see is Death.

On my right, I see one of my comrades get crushed. On my left, another gets sliced in half, his armor proving no more protective than butter. Blood and gore fall down like rain upon those of us who remain and I tremble in horror at the sight. But coming from my left, I hear the voice of our leader, Sir Denrick of Westion, calling out to us, ordering us to stand and fight. Arrows from the nearby orcs rain down on us, bouncing off our armor, but it's the troll among us who slaughters my friends without end—Sir Oswald, Sir Griffonheart, Sir Newton—they're guts spilled so incredibly easily.

Back on earth, we were mighty. We knights of Westion defeated any barbarian army that fought us with ease. It wasn't until the vile traitor Sir Hawthorne declared war on us that we were ever truly challenged on the field of battle, and even then, we held our own.

But here, on Valhalla, we are like so many ants to be stepped on. It did not seem that way at the start of the battle. When the orcs ambushed us in Kinsland, we did not fear them; we raised our shields, charged, and struck them down as we always had our enemies. But they were but a diversion. From our unprotected rear, a massive, green troll carrying a jagged, saw-like blade came at us. The beast struck at us, but we retaliated, wounding it any number of times. Yet it would not fall. Instead, as it grew more and more enraged, the monster seemed to become stronger and sliced off heads by the dozens.

Now, only one among us truly stands against the monster. Sir Denrick darts through the monster's blind spots and lands blow after blow, like the mighty heroes of legend. The rest of us, unable to keep up, do what we can to keep the troll distracted. By now though, its strength is so far beyond ours that it bats away all who get too close. Each of them, dying so easily, so meaninglessly. What purpose was there in our even being here? When did we become mere pawns in the game of war?

Suddenly, a lucky shot from one of the nearly forgotten orcs lodges itself in Sir Denrick's right shoulder, and as he reels back in surprise, the troll knocks him to the ground. Several knights try to strike the beast from the rear, but he waves them off with his blade and smoothly uses the momentum to swing it down upon Sir Denrick. Unable to move away in time, my leader parries with his shield, somehow pushing aside the fatal blow, but the wicked sword renders his shield apart in the process.

Here, at last, I have an opening. While the beast regains its footing, I charge in between the monster and my leader, raise my sword, and slice off its thumb. The troll, caught off guard, drops its weapon and reels back, releasing an unearthly howl of pain and rage. But in that moment, I see my chance, my only chance. In this one moment, the troll has stretched its neck to a length where its armor doesn't completely cover it. Acting purely on instinct, I lift my sword and plunge it into that gap. The roar cuts off abruptly, and a chilling silence falls onto the battlefield. The hulking form stands still for several moments before swaying and finally falling to the ground.

The monster is dead. I killed it. Not our hero, the giant-slaying Sir Denrick; I did it. The realization leaves me in shock as I stare at our fallen adversary.

And suddenly, the momentary peace is broken as the earth rushes up to meet me and a sharp pain fills my back and chest. From where I lie on the ground, see orcs mounted on swogs charging into our ranks, but by a particularly nasty one on a white swog. In the distance, I can hear yelling, and my sight turns red again as the battle resumes. I can't breathe. I finally realize, I must have been trampled from behind and now my ribs were broken and at least one of my lungs was punctured. The world starts to get blurry and in these last moments, my thoughts become introspective. In the end, had my actions made a difference? Did my life have meaning? Was I a hero?


End file.
